Overcoming Perfectionism

Overcoming Perfectionism

At the start of 2024, I made a goal for myself, the kind of noble, well-intentioned goal people love to make when the calendar flips and everything still smells like new beginnings. I was going to study art and art history. Not casually, not just scrolling through pretty paintings on Instagram, but really study it. I made an elaborate self-study plan that could have doubled as a college course syllabus. I had the books lined up in the order I’d read them, the museum visits mapped out by season, the videos bookmarked and color-coded in a YouTube playlist. I was ready to become a walking, talking art encyclopedia.

And for about a week, I actually believed it was going to work.

But then, of course, life, that unpredictable collaborator, decided to improvise. Somewhere between work, errands, and the general chaos of existence, my art books migrated from my desk to the floor beside my reading chair, forming what I now affectionately call “The Pile of Good Intentions.” They’re all still there: dog-eared, with random scraps of paper sticking out of them like little white flags of surrender. I still haven’t made it to a single museum this year (though I might break that streak tomorrow with a trip to the Fernbank). And that beautifully organized YouTube playlist? It’s been sitting untouched for months, quietly judging me every time I scroll past it.

By most people’s standards, I guess you could call that a failure. Maybe it is. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little, that small, perfectionist part of me that wanted to check every box, to live up to the plan. But honestly? What I did instead turned out to be something entirely different, and in many ways, much better.

Because this year, I didn’t study art history. I lived a little art of my own.

I’ve read more books than I have in years, not the dense, academic ones about brushstrokes and movements, but novels and memoirs and stories that made me feel alive again. I’ve started junk journaling and art journaling, two things I never thought I’d enjoy, let alone stick with. There’s something oddly freeing about tearing up old paper, smearing paint with your fingers, and making something just because it feels right in the moment. It’s messy, chaotic, and deeply satisfying.

I’ve listened to music, really listened, not just streamed in the background while I worked. I dug out old CDs, spun dusty vinyl, even bought a vintage iPod. It’s been strangely grounding, hearing songs without the internet watching, rediscovering albums like artifacts from another version of myself.

I’ve gone on photoshoots, joined the ATL Shooters Club, met people who remind me that creativity isn’t meant to be done in isolation. I’ve had conversations that stretched late into the night, traded stories, and actually started building friendships here in Atlanta, something I’ve been meaning to do for years.

So no, I didn’t stick to the plan. I didn’t become an expert on the Renaissance, or memorize the names of obscure Dutch painters, or check off the list of museums I swore I’d visit. But what I did instead, the books, the art, the music, the people, feels a lot more alive.

And maybe that’s the quiet lesson hiding inside all this: plans are just scaffolding. Life’s the art. And sometimes, the best thing you can do is let the paint spill, let the music skip, and trust that the mess you’re making might just turn into something beautiful.